


Lost and Found

by sahiya



Category: White Collar
Genre: Companionable Snark, Gen, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 07:53:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter, Mozzie, an injured ankle, a damp night evading bad guys in the woods, and a safehouse that might more accurately be called a safeshack. Mix well and step back quickly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

  * For [joy2190](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joy2190/gifts).



> This is story is dedicated to the memory of Kit Collins.

Peter’s ankle _hurt_.

At some point in the not-so-distant past, he thought he’d probably been aware of other things, like bad guys chasing them through the woods and a drizzle that was increasing steadily to a downpour. But in the last fifteen minutes, all of that had faded in the face of the overwhelming need to get off his ankle. 

But someone was hauling him along and wouldn’t let him stop to breathe, much less sit down. If that someone hauling him along had been Diana or Jones or Neal, Peter wouldn’t have been worried. 

“Not much further, Suit,” the someone said.

 _. . . yeah._ Peter was worried. “We have a destination?” he managed to grunt. 

“I told you, I have a safehouse. Well, ‘house’ might be a bit of a misnomer, they can’t all be as glamorous as Tuesday. It’s a little rustic, but it should get us through the night.”

Peter hoped so, because that was something else he’d have worried about if he could have. The woods they were tromping through were getting darker by the minute, and he was starting to worry about injuring the _other_ ankle. He was also starting to shiver from damp and cold and probably shock, and somewhere out there were four men who were still (presumably) pretty set on killing them. They’d both lost their cell phones, and Peter didn’t know how his team was going to track them.

But he didn’t have the capacity at the moment to worry about that. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, moving forward without face planting into the mud. 

He was so focused on moving forward that he only noticed that there was a structure in front of them when Mozzie finally stopped. He blinked at it, while Mozzie fumbled around. Calling it a house would have certainly been generous. It was more of a shed, or maybe a shack. Peter was unclear on the distinction, but it was definitely small and rundown. 

“Ah ha!” Mozzie said at last, holding up a key.

“That’s all?” Peter said. “No password?”

“Keep it up, Suit, and you can spend the night out here.”

Peter shut his mouth. Soaked through to the skin and barely upright - no, he didn’t want to risk pissing Mozzie off. But he also wasn’t sure how long he could keep his temper under these circumstances. 

Mozzie had to help him up the two steps to the shed-or-shack. Inside, there was a bare mattress on the floor, a camp stove with a pile of wood beside it - thankfully dry - an old steamer trunk, and an ancient radio that Peter didn’t think could possibly work. Mostly, he was just grateful for the mattress, which took up the vast majority of the floor space. He hobbled the two feet to it and collapsed with a groan. 

Two pillows and a blanket hit him in the face. “Prop that ankle up,” Mozzie said. “I’ll see about building a fire.”

“Really?” Peter said, raising his head. “Never pegged you for a Boy Scout.”

“HA!” Mozzie said. “Hardly. The Boy Scouts are nothing but a clever way for indoctrinating our nation’s youth into life inside the box. Don’t come running to me when the revolution comes.”

“I can hold my own,” Peter said. He didn’t mention that he _had_ been a Boy Scout once. 

Mozzie made a skeptical noise.

Peter decided that perhaps small talk wasn’t the best way to pass the time. He propped his ankle up on the two pillows Mozzie had given him and covered himself up with the blanket. It was chilly in the shed, but it was also very small, and he thought the stove would heat things up pretty fast. He watched Moz build the fire, reassured despite himself to see how easily he did it. 

At last the fire was built. Mozzie sat back on the mattress, and it suddenly occurred to Peter that there wasn’t anywhere else to sit, much less sleep. 

This was going to get cozy. 

Mozzie apparently had the same thought. “Do you snore, Suit?” he asked. 

“No,” Peter said, “but I have it on good authority that I talk in my sleep.” Mozzie looked suddenly interested, and it occurred to Peter that this might be a _problem_. El had never told him what he said. He cleared his throat. “What about you?”

“I sleep like an angel,” Mozzie informed him. “No snoring, no talking, no kicking. Anything else speaks of an undisciplined mind.”

“Oh really,” Peter said dryly. And then, out of curiosity, he added, “What does Neal do in his sleep?”

“All three,” Mozzie said. The two of them exchanged a grin. 

Peter was right: the shed warmed up quickly. Mozzie produced a pack of cards, but when Peter asked if he wanted to play, Moz waved him off. “You’ll have to play Solitaire for now,” Mozzie said, picking up the radio. “I’m going to get us out of here.”

“That can’t possibly work,” Peter said, eyeing the radio skeptically. 

“That’s what I want you to think, Suit,” Mozzie muttered.

There really wasn’t much to say to that. Peter started dealing out the cards, while Mozzie poked at the radio with occasional bursts of static. Peter didn’t know what he was doing, but if it helped get them home faster, he was in favor of it. Even propped up and with his shoe off, his ankle ached, and he knew it wasn’t going to feel any better in the morning. He’d be lucky if he didn’t have to be carried out of there on a stretcher by the time the team showed up. 

Some time later - Peter had no idea how long, since he’d lost his watch in the same scuffle that’d cost him his phone, but he’d played at least six games of Solitaire - Mozzie finally set the radio aside with an air of frustration. 

“No luck?” Peter asked. Mozzie didn’t answer. “They’ll find us, you know,” he said after a moment. “Neal’s out there, and so are Jones and Diana. They’ll find us.”

Mozzie looked at him. “You’re so sure.”

“Yes,” Peter said, with absolute certainty. “I am.” He didn’t say that this was one of the perks of working with back-up, with a team you trusted not to turn around and stab you in the back. That had shocked the hell out of Neal when he’d first started.

Mozzie was quiet for a moment. “We should get some rest,” he said at last. 

Peter supposed there was really nothing else to do, and it was probably a good idea to let the fire die down a little, now that the cabin was warm. There were a few more blankets in the steamer trunk, which Moz pulled out and threw on the bed. He left the pillows under Peter’s ankle, though. Peter wriggled around under one of the blankets, trying to get comfortable. But between the ache in his ankle and the knowledge that somewhere out in the dark were people who wanted to kill them, he didn’t think he’d be getting much rest. 

“We should take this in shifts,” he said, “just in case. I can go first.”

Mozzie looked at him sharply, and Peter expected him to say that he didn’t trust The Man to watch his back. But all Moz said was, “If you touch the steamer trunk, I’ll know,” and turned over onto his side, his back to Peter. He fell asleep almost instantly, leaving Peter wide-awake and staring into a darkness that was almost perfect, now that the stove had died down to mere embers. 

Mozzie really didn’t move when he was asleep, Peter discovered as the hours crawled by. It was almost creepy: he didn’t move or snore or mumble. A couple of times, Peter poked him just to see what would happen; he twitched but otherwise didn’t react. Peter listened to the noises of the woods around him - the rustle of the trees, the patter of the rain - and tried to think of camping trips with his dad when he was a kid, falling asleep in a tent to the sound of his dad’s snores. 

Just as he was getting drowsy and starting to think it might be time to wake Moz, he heard a sound that was out of place. Then there was a thump and someone swore. Peter froze, then turned to shake Moz awake. But Moz was already sitting up with his glasses on. 

“Help me stand,” Peter whispered, and Moz nodded. He shoved himself under Peter’s shoulder and was about to haul them both up when a familiar voice outside hissed, “Peter? Moz?”

“Neal!” Peter said. Moz lurched for the door and opened it to reveal Neal and just behind him Diana and Jones, all equally damp, bedraggled, and relieved. 

“Oh thank God,” Neal said.

“Is either of you hurt?” Diana asked, already pulling out her cell phone. 

“My ankle,” Peter said. “I don’t think I can walk out of here.” 

“Got it, boss,” she said. 

“What about Harrison and his flunkies?” Peter asked as Neal ducked into the shack and crouched down beside him. 

“We got them four hours ago,” Jones said, leaning in the threshold. “They were stumbling around in the woods, half-frozen and completely lost. By the time we arrested them they were almost grateful.”

“So what took you so long?” Moz demanded of Neal. “You had to know we’d be here!”

“I did,” Neal said, looking sheepish. “But it’s been a long time since I was last here, and there are a lot of woods, and -”

“ _Neal_ ,” Moz admonished. 

“Sorry, sorry!” Neal said, holding his hands up as if in surrender. “Hey, we found you, didn’t we?”

Peter caught Moz’s eye. He gave him a one-shouldered shrug and a smile. _I told you so_. Moz looked at him and shook his head, then looked back at Neal. 

“Yeah,” Moz said. “Yeah, you did.”

_Fin._


End file.
